One that has neither muff nor fur makes a quite sorry figure all in gray.
And see! She breaks from the ranks and runs; O God, what has seized her?
She goes and throws herself in the stream. Not a boatman, not a Newfoundland dog....
Dismal north wind, screaming downpour and dark stream, and shut houses....
A full silence of vibrant gold has descended near the springs which satyrs have troubled; a clear marvel enclosed in the heart of the valleys, if the little singing bird remains silent.
Oblivion of the flute, hours of fearless dreams, where thou hast known how to find for thy amorous blood the peacefulness of inhabiting a place odorous with roses, whose sylvan gods make thee arms.
There thou goest, composing beautiful books, a credit to the French language and the noble Athens.